The Flame is Dark
by Robespierre-vs.-Napoleon
Summary: Christine knows that she has made the right choice the second his lips touch hers. (THIS MIGHT BE MADE INTO A LONGER STORY AT A LATER DATE.)


_"He loves her."_

_"If you say so."_

* * *

The young lady flinches when her new husband takes her clammy hand in his larger one, gently leading her towards the door of their new bedroom. _Their bedroom. _She was finally married, finally gone from the horrors of the past. He was dead, he wouldn't bother her or her new love again.

Light from the solitary candle her male companion holds highlights the gentle curves of her face, baby fat still softening her pale, youthful skin. She has not yet reached her twentieth birthday, just a few months away, and still holds the naïveté of childhood. Innocent, but not so much that she has no preconceived notion of what is to occur in less than an hour. Her husband would guide her steps to the beauty of womanhood, and tear away all that remained of her old self. He has already changed so much of her, dressing her in clothes nicer than she had ever worn, telling her she was lovely, speaking to her kindly, and treating her like she was a delicate object that would break at any jounce or prod. She doesn't fear her husband, but she does fear...him.

_No_, she thinks, shaking her head, _thinking of him will only make things worse. You're already scared enough of him, and thinking of him, on your wedding night, after you know he's dead..._

"Christine? My love? You look troubled," her husband says, and it snaps her attention back to the present. His own face, brow crinkled in concern for his precious bride, is soft, contrasting the hard, sharp, bony features of the man from the past. If she tried, she could think he was a distant dream, nothing but a nightmare from her childhood.

"I...I am alright...I think it is just..." she manages, stuttering. Her big eyes stare up at him from lashes thick as the Punjab lasso, both her lashes and the latter having driven men to death.

"Do not worry, Christine," Raoul smiles at her, like he understands. He thinks he does, but he doesn't. He never did, he never will. "It is understandable. Most women are nervous."

Raoul's hand grabs the brass doorknob, and Christine starts now. This is final, the point of no return. This is her last chance to turn and run for her life, run back to empty shell of an opera house that holds all she remembers after Daddy Daaé. But she knows in her heart of hearts that this is right, this is what she needs. Raoul is the key to her future, the other man just a door that Raoul will unlock and take her through.

When he opens the door, Christine's eyes wander, soaking up every inch of the opulent bedroom. The walls are colored in a warm cream, edged with dark mahogany, and the floors, which the massive skirts of her wedding dress make a lovely swooshing sound over, are polished to perfection, draped with expensive carpentry. Christine moves shakily over to the vanity, removing each glove and laying them over the back of the chair. She goes behind a room divider and, with effort, undoes the back of the dress, the material pooling at her feet.

When she is finally out of her wedding finery and is wrapped in an elegant dressing gown, she steps out and sits down in front of the mirror. Each pin is drawn out of her hair, each curl or section falling out of the carefully placed hairdo to dangle near her slim waist. Oh, Raoul just has to hear how hard her heart is pounding when she turns in the chair to face him, jumping out of habit when he is closer than she thought.

A gentle hand touches her shoulder, Raoul smiling at her, moving his hands to grasp her and guide her to her feet. He leads her to the bed, drawing back the sheets. She notes that they are white and pure as the snow. This, she knows without being told, is so that there will be no doubt of Madame de Chagny's virginity in the morning. Raoul never spoke of it with her, but she had heard the rumours. People had thought and spread the nasty lie that she had slept with the Opera Ghost in exchange for lessons. This she had learned when the maids bringing in her linens a few mornings ago and told her they would get her a chicken to kill in exchange for favours. It was not true, but soon, nobody would be able to say anything about it. All of those people who had thought that the Vicomte was stupid to marry a lowly little chorus girl would be out in their places. And good, too. She was tired of hearing it. Now, she was a proper lady.

Christine laid in the bed, scurrying to the other side, staring at Raoul in the fear of the unknown. He crawled in next to her, easing her head down onto the fluffy, downy pillows, cradling her head in the crook of his arm as he draped himself next to her. Raoul drew the covers up over them, perhaps hoping to save his young bride some embarrassment from her first time being nude in front of another man besides her father.

"Christine, are you sure?" he asks, not wanting to seem like he is a brute who has the unmitigated temerity to take her like a monster with no concern for her.

Her eyes staring straight into his, she draws his hand to the ties that hold her dressing gown together, breathlessly whispering, "Yes."

When she wakes in the morning, she knows, just knows, that she has made the right choice, even as she aches everywhere, no matter how gentle Raoul had been. She does not think of the Phantom for a long time afterwards, not when she misses her blood, not when the welcome their first child. He, the Phantom, lost the chance to be with her. He could have been the baby's father, in a different lifetime.

No, she thinks one day when her child is a couple months old, bouncing it on her knee, pointing at the pretty sunshine and flowers outside the window as the child coos and giggles in delight. No, she will not think of him. He was the past. Raoul is her future.

* * *

**A/N: I might make this into a longer story with longer chapters if I get enough interest. I wrote this on a whim, so, maybe...**


End file.
